Chapter 3
“Me?” étienne squeaked. “You wish to marry me?”
“Yes,” Verbena said. “If you would consent to such an arrangement.”
étienne sketched a line between them with his hand. “An arrangement? As in, une farce? Not…?” His face took on an uncomfortable cast.
Verbena had thought through the entire thing on the walk to Bloomsbury.
Now she allowed the plan to unfurl like a flag in the breeze.
“We would not be as husband and wife to each other in actuality, no. I would live here with you, but you would be free to conduct any affairs you wished with a reasonable amount of discretion. In return, I could do as I pleased. We might attend certain events together to keep up appearances, but that would be the extent of our union. Really, it would be more agreeable than most marriages I know.”
The more she spoke on it aloud, the more appealing it became.
Verbena had never expected to marry for love; such a thing was so rare as to be unheard-of (except in the case of her friends, the Chesterfields, but poets were different sorts of people).
And at this late date, with her future hanging in the balance, a false marriage to a pleasant, handsome, well-dressed, financially viable man was better than her alternatives.
She wouldn’t even need to bear children, a prospect that had inspired only ambivalence in her since she was old enough to understand the mechanics of the thing.
“A marriage in name only?” étienne asked, as if the concept was new to him. “Without any…passion?”
Clearly, he was a son of France and not a member of the ton.
“It would be of great benefit to us both,” Verbena said.
“Your standing would only rise in the eyes of society—a tailor marrying a gentlewoman. And I, of course, would be free of my parents, who I think are ready to auction me off to the highest bidder any day now.” She smiled at him, hoping her desperation did not show too badly.
“I’d much rather have you, whose company I find enjoyable, than a roll of the dice. ”
“Sensible as always, Mademoiselle Montrose,” étienne murmured.
“Please. Verbena.” Careful, she reminded herself. Desperation could leak through even the smallest syllable.
“Verbena,” he agreed, and then lapsed into a sort of dazed silence.
His eyes focused on something in the middle distance.
It must be quite a shock, beginning one’s day in the grip of terrible heartache and ending it with a marriage proposal.
Carriage passengers whose ill-trained horses came to a sudden, jerking stop often reported a similar sensation in their necks.
étienne’s neck, while physically unharmed, was nonetheless turning a bright pink under Verbena’s watchful gaze.
Verbena tried not to stare as she waited for his answer. She feigned great interest in the fall of her skirts, rearranging them about her ankles.
If this conference bore no fruit, she would need to continue circulating at balls and parties, hoping to ensnare some silly man with more money than sense.
Yet the season was nearing its end, and her chances of success had dwindled terribly.
She had not been jesting about her parents’ desperation to broker a match.
Her mother was increasingly adamant that she use “all her wiles” to secure a proposal, which amounted to flirting with scandal more than Verbena was willing to.
Her father had mentioned just the other day that he meant to sell the pianoforte, despite the fact that its loss would mean no music in the parlor should a suitor come calling.
How was a woman supposed to be wooed in a silent tomb?
Verbena could not produce loaves and fishes (and husbands) from thin air.
She dreaded the possibility of failure. If she did not marry by the year’s end, she would be plunged into spinsterhood. And unlike Diedre Hollyhock, who still had her family’s fortune to comfort her in her long, lonely days, Verbena would be penniless.
It was unfair that she had been born into a certain life, molded into a certain shape, and told that if she only played the game by its prescribed rules, she would be rewarded with a comfortable existence.
Her talents were mere party pieces; she had no skills from which to earn a living.
Now, due to her father’s incompetence, she teetered on the brink of disaster through no fault of her own.
Well, that might not be entirely true. Verbena shut her eyes with the shame of it.
Only yesterday her mother had chided her—while directing her lady’s maid to tighten her corset strings until her bosom practically overspilled the confines of London, never mind her neckline—that Verbena had no one to blame but herself.
“You debuted to plenty of interest from eligible bachelors and entertained many suits,” she’d said. “How could you squander your every chance?”
Verbena had ignored the barb. At the end of her debut season, flush with success and with no reason to believe her family’s finances were about to crumble, Verbena had been in no rush to choose.
If a gentleman third in line for an earldom wished to be on her dance card, she’d wonder if perhaps she might catch the eye of a gentleman next in line for a dukedom.
When she had accomplished that, well, why not aim for a future prince?
A current prince? A king from the Continent?
What was the limit when she had her beauty, wit, and reputation?
Verbena had even induced a scarcity of her attention, claiming a disinclination to dance so that her admirers were forced to attend her away from the dance floor, ensuring that no other woman had their eye during a grand ball.
That was how the game was played, Verbena had thought: learn the rules, bend them slightly in your favor, and reap the winnings. And for a while, it seemed to work.
How quickly one’s luck could turn. Now her hopes hung on an Achillean tailor.
She glanced over at his thoughtful visage. She could only pray he was as desperate as she.
At last étienne straightened his spine, the corner of his mouth lifting in kind. “Verbena,” he repeated, his native French caressing the syllables. “I should become accustomed to calling my wife by her Christian name when we are alone, I suppose.”
Verbena could not help her yelp of joy as relief surged through her. She clapped her hands together. “Then we are agreed? We will marry?”
étienne ran a hand through his wild curls and surveyed the nearly empty bedroom. “I think so,” he said. “I—I think we must.”
She hesitated. His voice held the high, frantic note that Verbena often heard in ballrooms late at night when someone was about to make a rash decision.
étienne was her friend. He had only recently been discarded by a longtime lover, and in the worst possible manner; his thoughts were scattered, surely, and his spirit unmoored.
As much as she wanted the matter settled, Verbena thought perhaps a decision like this should not be made in haste.
She opened her mouth to suggest that étienne first settle into the house, then take some time before committing to her scheme.
étienne, however, spoke first. “I never dreamed I would be married,” he said with a helpless laugh.
“My brothers will be very surprised. Oh, I must insist that I make our wedding clothes. I may be known for my coats, but I have been aching to try my hand at a gown. You would look very becoming in a manteau.” He brightened.
“When should we announce the banns, do you think? It is quite a process, I hear. Shall we begin tomorrow?”
“Hold on a moment,” Verbena said. “Don’t you think we should…?” She trailed off. It was on the tip of her tongue to tell étienne he should proceed with open eyes and a clear head, but her damned instinct for self-preservation kept her from forming the words.
“Do I think we should what?” étienne prompted.
Verbena lifted her gaze to him. She could not afford to place her friend’s well-being above her own. Not at this critical moment.
“We should go about this at a reasonable pace,” she said.
“You are still unknown to the ton except as their tailor. It will be a delicate operation, introducing you as an eligible bachelor looking for a well-bred wife. Let us lay the groundwork first: a courtship now, followed by an engagement in a few months’ time.
Any faster and we might invite rumors of an entirely different sort. ”
étienne frowned. “But what scandal could there possibly be in two lovers rushing to the altar? It would merely seem a true romance, no?”
Verbena had to remind herself that her future husband, while knowledgeable about winter wools, knew little of women. “People might think we had…enjoyed each other’s company far ahead of the wedding date,” she said.
“Yes, a true romance! And anyway, I do enjoy your company.”
“No, étienne,” she said. “I mean, it would appear as if I were with child.”
“Oh.” He thought a bit, then opened his mouth in a wide, surprised circle. “Oh!”
Verbena waved the thought away. “Not the worst gossip one might weather; Lady Brackport gave birth to her eldest about three months after her wedding day, and I daresay even a fool can work out those timings. Still, best to do this correctly.”
étienne leaned heavily on the chaise’s curved back, looking dazed. “Yes, I believe you are right.”
Verbena tugged her gloves back on. Now began the task of briskly issuing her orders.
“Tomorrow you and I will meet in St. James’s.
If the weather is fair, everyone who is anyone will be promenading.
You will escort me round the pond. My maid will accompany me as chaperone; you remember Betsy, yes?
If your clients ask later, you will tell the truth: that we were introduced by a mutual friend and you find me quite witty. That is the truth, is it not?”
“Your wit, my dear, it is unmatched,” said étienne.
“Good.” She buttoned her gloves at her wrists, slipping the mother-of-pearl into place. “Two o’clock. By the fountain. Don’t be late.”
“I would not dare. Shall I walk you out?”
Verbena inclined her head, listening to the sounds of the workmen still hauling in the boxes downstairs. “I believe I will slip out the back.”
“Until tomorrow, then.” He took her gloved hand and pressed a kiss to the back of it. His dark eyes glittered as he looked up at her, and for a moment, Verbena wished that either of them could find any interest in the other’s person.
Alas, she would need to settle for having a kind husband and an empty bed. It was more than most women could hope for, at least.
“Tomorrow,” she said, and took her leave.